


Ten Years Later

by Fyre



Series: Ne'er So Fair [6]
Category: Bad Education (UK TV)
Genre: M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hadn’t broken up because they didn’t care. They hadn’t broken up because they didn’t want each other anymore. There was just a gap between them, and when they were standing that close again, it was like the gap was gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Years Later

It was raining, but that didn’t matter.

No one really cared what the weather was like on parade day. If you got wet, so what? You’d be warm enough by the end of it, with all the dancing and parties, and if you were lucky, someone would give you their coat to keep you warm.

Stephen was definitely up for a party. 

He was in a cluster of other dancers who were in feathers and glitter and not much else, laughing and dancing through the streets of the city. Some of them were pros. Some of them were just keen amateurs, and every one of them was having a ball.

They were headed for Trafalgar square, but Stephen had plans with Ricky in Soho after.

Trafalgar square was fun for a while, but Soho was where the real parties started.

So they danced and waved and as usual, he regretted choosing his best knee-high heeled boots after the first mile. Ricky would laugh himself sick.

It was a good crowd, and Stephen was happy to bask in it, but couldn’t have been more relieved when he saw the massive great lions of Trafalgar square looming ahead. Ricky said he’d be waiting by one of them, so as soon as he could, he broke off from the rest of the dancers.

“See ya, babes!” he called over his shoulder, hurrying out into the crowd.

The whole square looked like someone on a bad acid trip had done a painting: colour everywhere all over the place, and more feathers than you could shake a stick at. Stephen hopped on one foot, to tug his boot off, careening sideways.

A pair of hands caught him, setting him back upright.

“Ain’t got anymore graceful with age, have ya, Glee?”

Stephen froze, then turned to look at the man who’d caught him.

Frankie.

Frank Grayson.

He didn’t look all that different, a West Ham top over jeans with a leather jacket on top. But then, he looked completely different. He was smiling, for one. He was in a crowd of thousands of gays and he wasn’t looking nervous or unhappy or uncomfortable or anything. He looked…

Shit, he looked incredible.

“Frank?” Stephen said in a faint voice.

He remembered the last time they’d seen each other, six years earlier. They split up when Stephen was at drama school, and Frank was doing the second year of an apprenticeship. It wasn’t a bad split, just too little time for each other, and too many other things dragging them in different directions.

Frank stripped off his jacket, leaning closer to set it around Stephen’s shoulders, and even the way he moved was lighter, like he wasn’t trying to play a part so hard. “You look fuckin’ freezin’,” he said. “You forget to put clothes on or somethin’?” 

Stephen stared at him, lifting his hands to draw the coat closed around him. It was warm and heavy. He felt vulnerable and naked, and god, it had been far too long, and Frank was how he’d always imagined him being, but happy. He was here, at pride, and he was happy, and it lit him up like nothing had before.

No. 

Not nothing.

Sometimes, Stephen had seen a glimpse of that, when they were together, but not like this.

“Costume,” he heard himself say.

“Not much of one,” Frank replied, grinning. “I’ve seen bigger outfits on a Chihuahua.”

Stephen couldn’t help himself. He threw himself forward and hugged the silly man as tightly as he could, kissing him warmly on both cheeks. “Shut up,” he said, laughing. “How did you find me, you daft bastard?”

“Just stalked you from Regent street,” Frank said amiably. “Thought I recognised ya, so I followed the parade along and here we are.”

Stephen shook his head, smiling. “You could have waved or something,” he said. “Let me know you were there.”

Frank laughed quietly. “I think you was wavin’ enough for the both of us,” he said. 

Stephen could feel Frank’s hands on his hips under the coat, broad and rough and warm as the man himself. And his own hands were still resting on Frank’s shoulders. How about that? He hadn’t even noticed putting them there.

“Who’s this then, love?”

Stephen jumped back a step, blushing like he was back in school, at Ricky’s voice. Ricky was standing less than three feet away, head to one side, a feather boa around his neck. 

“Ricky, Frank,” he said, as Ricky sashayed over to him and put an arm around his waist. “Frank, this is Ricky.” He didn’t know why he was hesitating, but he did, before adding, “My boyfriend.”

No, that was a big fat lie.

He knew exactly why he hesitated.

Was the same reason he hadn’t backed up right away when Frank’s hands were on his hips, and there was only a palm’s breadth between them.

They hadn’t broken up because they didn’t care. They hadn’t broken up because they didn’t want each other anymore. There was just a gap between them, and when they were standing that close again, it was like the gap was gone.

Shit.

“All right?” Frank didn’t even hesitate, holding out a hand.

“Frank?” Ricky echoed, frowning, and Stephen’s heart sank. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever told Ricky about Frank. He hoped not. Him and Frank, they’d been a secret worth keeping, and he didn’t want Frank to think he went around blabbing about them. “From school, yeah?”

Frank nodded, though his smile wasn’t quite as bright as it had been a moment before. “Yeah,” he said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Hadn’t seen the daft poof in a while. Saw him in the parade. Come over to say hi.”

“You got any plans?” Ricky said, and that made it even worse. Of course Ricky would welcome him. He would welcome anyone, because he was a sweetheart. “We’re heading to Soho. Got a mate with a club and the best party in town.”

For a moment, Stephen was torn between terror that Frank would say yes. Or that he would say no.

“Nah,” he said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Thought I might have a look around. See what’s happenin’.” He offered Stephen the quiet smile that had only ever been for him. “We should catch up some time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stephen said quietly. “Yeah, that’d be good.” 

He started to shrug off Frank’s coat, but Frank shook his head. “You’ll need it more’n I do now,” he said. “Keep it.” A quick grin crossed his lips. “Gives you a reason to find me, eh? No excuse.”

Before Stephen could ask how he was meant to do that, Frank turned and walked off through the crowd.

Stephen’s fingers curled against the age-softened leather of the coat, and he looked down at it. It was still the same coat. More than ten years since they first kissed, and Frank still had the same coat, and supported the same team, and looked at Stephen like he was something special. 

“He one of us?” Ricky inquired. 

Stephen nodded. “Yeah.”

“Huh. Butch.”

Stephen nodded again, then turned a smile on his boyfriend. “So, a party?” he said, trying to push Frank Grayson to the back of his mind. It wasn’t going to be easy. His warmth lingered in the leather of the coat, and it smelled of him, of his aftershave.

Ricky caught him by the arm and dragged him onwards.

 

 

___________________________________________

 

 

Frank knew he should have stayed out of the way.

It had been six sodding years.

Of course Stephen would get on with his life and get a new boyfriend and be happy and shit.

He took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke into the air.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t changed too. 

Frank Grayson that Stephen had left behind would never gone to Pride or even looked sideways at anyone in the parade if he saw it by accident. 

A lot could change about a man in six years.

He was out to his whole family now, for good or bad. His dad had stopped speaking to him, which he didn’t give a shit about. His mum still sometimes phoned, but usually just wrote him. He got letters from her at Christmas and on his birthday. 

Ben, his big brother, was the only one who didn’t drop him like a sack of shit.

He’d ended up in Ben’s spare room for six months, after everyone found out, and mum got pissed with him for telling his dad where to go.

Frank didn’t understand why at first, but Ben let him in on the secret a couple of months after Frank came out: gay punters paid top prices for everything in a club. If you put on a night for queers, you’d make more profit than all the straights, because they knew how to have a party.

Frank called bullshit, but as long as his brother wasn’t kicking him out, he’d pretend to believe it.

He’d never been close to his brother before that. Ten years age difference did that. But those six months in Ben’s spare room changed all that. His brother teased him about being a fag, and after a while, he could give as good as he got. 

It was… easier.

Not hiding.

Still, weren’t like he was gonna become an all-singing, all-dancing rainbow queen like Stephen. Weren’t his style, and everyone knew it. He was just Frank Grayson, only a bit better and more laid back than he had been in school. And he liked bumming. Wasn’t a big deal.

High up the wall, the school bell rang.

Frank stubbed out the cigarette on the wall and flicked the fag-end into the gutter.

The kids ran out in all directions, and Frank had to step back to avoid get trampled by dozens of tiny brats. 

In his day, he could’ve stopped ‘em dead with a look, but that was then.

“Oi! Titch!” he called.

A boy waved madly at him, pushing through the crowd, and Frank grinned.

“All right, Sam?” he said, as the boy crashed into him.

“I done a painting,” Same declared, holding up a mess of paint on paper. “It’s for mum.”

Frak put an arm around the kid’s shoulder. “She’ll love that,” he said. “C’mon, you little tosser. I got you fish fingers for dinner.”

Sam beamed at him. There was still a gap where he’d had his front tooth knocked out by some little tart with a rolling pin. The kid was pure Grayson, same eyes, nose, and everything. Frank’d seen pictures of himself as a kid, and the poor little bugger looked just like him.

Was easy enough to get the kid home. As long as he pretended to be listening with nods and ‘yeah’, Sam talked at him the whole way, even on the way up the stairs the flat. He talked about painting and spaghetti and how Chardonnay weed herself in gym.

The only time the little bugger shut up was when he was eating his fish fingers and chips.

Frank didn’t bother with anything for himself. Lizzie worked in a takeaway, and she usually brought him something if she was working late. He sat in front of the telly, flicking through the sports results, and trying not to think about the picture he’d left lying on the shelf by the bed.

He’d dug it out the day before, after he ran into Stephen. 

It was a daft photo from their last holiday, just the two of them looking like they were posing for a fucking Gay Monthly magazine or some shit. Stephen was leaning against him, and holding Frank’s arms around him, and they couldn’t have looked fucking softer or gayer.

“Fuck,” he muttered, getting up from the telly.

Sam looked up inquiringly. “Are you angry?”

“Nah, brat,” Frank replied, running a hand over his face. “Just thinking about shit.” He looked back at the boy, who was stabbing his peas with a fork one by one. “C’n’you hurry up with that? S’about time for you to have your bath, innit?”

Sam made a face. “Do I have to?”

“Yeah, you do,” he replied. “Your mum said you ain’t had one this week, and I ain’t sending you back to her stinking.”

“I’ll use your perfume,” Sam said hopefully. “Then I won’t stink.”

“Nah,” Frank said with a crooked grin. “I think your mum’d figure it out. Anyway, t’ain’t perfume. S’aftershave.”

Sam gave him a look that said he was calling bullshit, and went back to stabbing his peas.

It was another half an hour before Frank managed to get the sneaky little bugger into the bath, and Sam kicked and shrieked like he was being fucking drowned. Course, when the time came to get out of the water, he fought like a fucking wildcat to stay in.

By the time he was dry and dressed in his pyjamas and tucked up in bed, Frank was about ready to sleep for a week. Work was mental anyway, and a full day of that with Sam on top was fucking exhausting.

“Do I get a story?” Sam demanded, sitting up in his bed.

“Whaddya want one of them for?” Frank sighed.

“To keep the bad dreams away.”

Frank looked at the kid. Compared to his own childhood, Sam’s life was a piece of piss. Still, he wouldn’t wish nightmares on any kid. “All right, all right,” he agreed, sitting down on the end of the bed. “But you got to stay quiet and listen, right?”

Sam nodded, propping his chin on his knees.

Frank was crap with stories, but there was still one he remembered bit of. All Stephen’s stupid fault, an’ all. About two witches who were best mates and did everything together, and they were great, but things went tits up, and one of the witches got a boyfriend, and the other witch didn’t because she still liked the other witch too much.

Sam listened solemnly. “Is they gay?” he asked.

Frank nodded with a sigh. “Yeah.”

Sam considered this. “I think the witch should tell,” he said. “The other one ain’t gonna know, if she don’t tell her.”

“Maybe the witch don’t want the other one to know, because she wants the other one to be happy.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “She’s a div,” he declared.

Frank leaned over and ruffled the kid’s hair. “You’re a div,” he said. 

“But you didn’t tell me the end!”

Frank got up off the bed. “That’s all there is,” he said, tucking the blankets over Sam.

Sam stuck his tongue out. “That story was crap.”

“Yeah, well, life sometimes is,” Frank said, leaning down to kiss Sam on the forehead. “You get some sleep, right?”

Under the blankets, Sam curled up into a ball before Frank even switched the light off.

Frank propped the door ajar with a shoe, then went to his own room. The picture was still lying there, right where he left it, and he picked it up.

He traced the outline of Stephen’s face.

He was a fucking twat, leaving his coat with Stephen and expecting him to come looking. Like he would want to, when he’d moved on and he was happy.

He shoved the picture into the drawer by the bed and closed it over. 

Fucking stupid.

 

 

____________________________________________________________

 

It’d been a week.

He was trying to play it cool, but it had been a week, and he’d been getting edgier and tetchier, and Ricky was starting to notice.

Frank hadn’t made it difficult to find him.

There were a handful of business card in the inside coat pocket, all of them saying exactly the same thing, and Stephen wasn’t surprised to find out that Frank wasn’t just a mechanic, but running his own garage as well. He’d always been good with cars, and even if he wasn’t amazing with people, he’d never have to worry about anyone trying to default on payments.

He waited a week, though, trying to pretend like he wasn’t missing Frank at all.

It didn’t work.

He showed up at the garage, first thing on a Monday morning. There were rehearsals in the afternoon, but his mornings were all his own, and all he was missing was a fitness class that he normally went along to with Ricky.

He knew he should feel guilty, but it was Frank.

Frank was an exception.

He’d dressed down, just jeans and a shirt, in case Frank’s workmates didn’t know. Wouldn’t do to have some flouncy queer showing up and embarrassing him. They didn’t even give him a second glance when he slipped in the door.

There was a desk, and a girl was sitting at it, playing on her phone.

“Is the boss in?”

The girl looked up from her phone, then sat up a bit straighter. “He’s due in any minute,” she said, propping her elbow on the desk and cupping her chin in her hand. “I could keep you entertained.”

“Stephen?”

Stephen spun around, and stared.

Frank was in a suit, and looked embarrassed as hell, but Stephen could see he was trying not to smile too.

“Who are you and what did you do with Frank?” he demanded before he could stop himself.

Frank snorted. “I was at the bank, you dickwad,” he said, walking towards Stephen. “Have to dress up nice so they’ll give me a loan.” He nodded towards a door at the back of the building. “Want to come through to my office?”

Stephen trailed after him, his hands wrapped tight around Frank’s coat. Better to hold onto that than onto Frank. “What do you need a loan for?” he asked, looking around the office. It looked all professional, and organised. “Looks like you’re doing all right.”

Frank undid his suit jacket and slipped it off, hanging it over the back of his chair. The shirt was too tight for him across the shoulders, and he sat down on the edge of the desk, undoing the tie. “Want to expand, don’t I? Building next door’s up for let an’ all, and if I get enough together, I can take on two more people.”

Stephen forced himself to pay attention to the certificate on the wall, trying not to look at the way Frank’s hands were moving as he undid his tie. “I’m glad,” he said, staring at the bit of paper that had come between them, along with his own career. “That it was worth it, I mean. All the work.”

Frank could move like a cat sometimes. Stephen had forgotten that until warm, broad hands were on his shoulders. A shiver ran the length of his body and he closed his eyes.

“Same for you, eh?” Frank said quietly. “West End shows. Ballets. Covent fucking garden.”

Stephen twisted to look at him, started. “What?”

Frank stepped back, heading back to his desk. He tapped his fingers on the edge, then looked back at Stephen. “Your mum’d let me know if you were in anything,” he said finally. “Just in case I wanted to know.” He looked down again. “Didn’t really understand half of them, but s’theatre, innit? You ain’t meant to understand the half of it.”

Stephen didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or pissed. “You’ve been coming to my shows?”

Frank nodded, pressing his fingertips against the desk and watching the tips turn white. “Only a few,” he said. “Not like I’m some kind of creepy stalker.” He glanced up, his eyes as green and unsure as they had been ten years back. “Wasn’t sure you’d want me about.”

Stephen’s hands were twisting around the coat until they hurt. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to wrap them around Frank’s neck. “You’re an idiot,” he declared, somewhere between angry and upset. “What d’you mean you didn’t think I’d want you about?”

Frank raised his eyes to him. “I’m not exactly… theatre-y,” he said finally. “Didn’t want to get in the way of you and your new friends.”

“And you didn’t think to fucking ask me?” Stephen demanded hotly. “What if I wanted to know? What if I wanted you there? What if I missed you so fucking much it hurt?”

Frank ran a hand across his forehead. “I’ve ballsed up, haven’t I?”

Stephen didn’t know what to say. What could he say? That it may have been six years, but he’d never actually got over the fact they weren’t together? That none of the boys he’d slept with or lived with or anything came close to what he felt for the silly bastard in front of him? That more than anything, he wished he’d known, so they could have at least worked out if there was anything left between them?

He crossed the floor in three steps and slapped Frank so hard that his hand stung.

Frank’s hand moved like lightning, wrapping around Stephen’s wrist, their arms crossed in front of their chests. He stared at Stephen, a patch of flaming red on his cheek where Stephen’s hand has struck.

“Don’t,” Stephen whispered furiously. “Don’t you ever think you know how I feel. Don’t ever even try to guess what’s going on in my head, Grayson.” His hand curled into a fist, and he tried to pull his arm away, but Frank wouldn’t open his hand. “Let me go.”

Frank straightened up. “Done that before,” he said, his voice low. “Ain’t doing it again.” 

He pulled Stephen closer, and it was like they were back in Abbey Grove, and Frank’s hand was at the back of his head and Frank’s lips were on his, only this time, he could see it coming, and this time, he was kissing back.

Frank was the one who drew back, breathing hard.

“Shit.”  
Stephen curled his fingers into Frank’s shirt. “What?”

Frank’s fingers curved along his jaw. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he said quietly. “You’ve got a boyfriend.”

Stephen flinched. Shit. He reluctantly drew back. “Yeah,” he said. “Ricky.” He kicked out at the nearest chair. “Shit.”

Frank looked at him, a strange, sad smile on his face. “Not the reaction I thought I’d get,” he said. “Thought you’d’ve slapped me again and stormed out.” He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Would’ve been easier.”

Stephen looked away. “I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “Not now that I’ve got Ricky.”

Frank gazed down at his hands. “Why did you?”

“Why did you come to my shows?” Stephen asked in response.

Frank raised his eyes and his lips curved in a brief, tired smile. “Ah. Right.” He sat back on the edge of the desk. “No more, yeah?”

Stephen felt like six years had never happened, and it was the same conversation all over again. “Yeah,” he said unhappily.

He left Frank’s jacket slung over the back of one of the chairs and headed for the door.

“If you and Ricky don’t work out,” Frank said suddenly, quietly. “Maybe drop by, yeah?”

“Maybe.”

Stephen had to run all the way out of the bloody garage so no one would see him cry.

 

____________________________________________________________

 

He should've sent Stephen away.

He should've stayed on the far side of the desk, not gone anywhere near him.

He shouldn't've kissed him, not knowing how much he still felt for the stupid bugger.

He didn't go after Stephen, when Stephen walked out so fast he was almost fucking running. He didn't leave his office for nearly half an hour, trying to pull himself together. He was a fucking grown man. He wasn't going to fall apart like he was still a fucking child.

That night, after Lizzie came to pick Sam up, he went out to Ben's club and got shit-faced. Not that anyone would know it to look at him. Frank wasn't a loud drunk. He just sat by the bar in silence, and his glass was never empty for more than five minutes.

Ben took him home after.

He didn't ask why, he just hauled him up the stairs to his flat, propping the door open with his shoulder as he helped Frank in. 

"Haven't seen you this wrecked in ages," Ben said as he hoisted Frank onto the bed.

"Mm." Frank flopped onto his back, arms spread on either side of him. "Fuckin' stupid."

Ben sat down at his feet to unlace his boots. "Yeah?"

Frank nodded.

Ben didn't say anything else, just grabbed Frank's ankles and pulled him around so he was lying flat on the bed.

"You need a bucket or water or something?" he asked.

Frank flung an arm over his eyes. "Nah. Piss off."

Ben knocked him on the knee, then headed out the door.

He should've got the twat to give him a bucket.

Instead, three hours later, Frank crawled off the bed and to the bathroom, and spent the rest of the night puking his guts out. By the time his alarm went off in his bedroom at seven, he was still lying on the bathroom floor, feeling like shit.

He managed to drag himself into the shower, and looked a bit better than half-dead when he stumbled through to the kitchen. His phone was lying on the floor, where it must have fallen out his pocket, and for the first time in his fucking professional career, he called in to work and lied that he was sick.

The rest of the day was like a fucking celebration of self-pity. It was fucking ridiculous, but it was one day he could take to feel crap, and then get over it. Was the best way to get it out of his fucking system. He looked through old photos and wanked a couple of times, thinking about the old days, then puked some more.

By the time he had to go and pick up Sam, he was feeling better. No. Not better. Less sick, but more tired. 

For once, Sam was quiet as they walked back to the flat.

"You all right, titch?"

Sam looked up at him seriously. "Mum said to keep my gob shut cos you're sick," he said. "You're a funny colour."

Frank groaned. Ben must have told her. "Nah, titch," he said. "I ain't sick. I just got pissed last night." He slung his arm around Sam's shoulders. "Don't you worry. I done it all to myself."

Sam nodded. "D'you want me to be quiet tonight?" he asked. "I can sit quiet, if you want."

Frank squeezed his shoulders. "That'd be good," he agreed. "How about I set up the playstation and you can play, eh?"

Sam was as good as his word. He ate his dinner without throwing things around, and as soon as the Playstation was set up, he sat down in front of the TV and played one of the football games that Frank had stashed away.

Frank spent the evening lying on the couch, sometimes opening one eye to see how he was getting on, and it was only when it was getting late that he told Sam to get into his pyjamas. The kid protested, but still got up and switched the game off.

"You gonna be all right?" he asked, as Frank helped him wash his face and clean his teeth.

"Yeah, titch," Frank said, towelling his face dry. He was feeling more human anyway, and Sam always made things seem a little bit less shit. He blinked in surprise when Sam flung his arms around Frank's neck. "Oi..."

"Love ya," Sam whispered conspiratorially.

Frank mussed the boy's scruffy hair. "Yeah," he agreed with a tired smile. "You an' all, kiddo."

It got easier after that, day by day.

He still looked at the picture of him and Stephen from time to time, but he didn't get pissed again. One day of being a sappy bastard was enough.

He went out, once or twice, found a boy in a club.

It wasn't anything special, just a shag here or there.

So what if they were all dark-skinned and dark-eyed? So what if he always took 'em from behind or let 'em get on their knees, so he didn't have to look 'em in the eye? So what if he left 'em as soon as they were both done? They was using him as much as he was using them, and it was easier than the other choices.

Could have gone looking for someone new.

Any sensible man would've, after six fucking years.

But Frank wasn't sensible, not when it came to Stephen.

Stephen was the reason he was a better man, and the reason he wasn't just a bullying cunt like his father. He couldn't forget it, even if it would have been a fucking mercy to be able to get the man out of his head.

So the picture stayed close to his bed, and he still smiled when he thought of the git, and it was enough. 

It was more than he’d had before, so yeah. 

It was enough.

 

 

___________________________________________________

 

“Steve, you seen my tap shoes?”

Stephen raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I told you I hadn’t this morning,” he snapped. He was in the middle of hand washing one of his shirts, his hands wrist-deep in thick, frothy foam. “Do I have to keep a bloody inventory?”

Ricky was silent for a moment. “No,” he said finally, quietly.

Stephen looked down at the suds in the bowl. “No,” he echoed. He lifted his hands free, wiping them on his joggers and looked around. “Ricky…”

“You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?” Ricky was looking at his feet. His dance bag was in his hands, and he looked younger somehow, lost. 

“What? No!” Stephen moved towards him, but Ricky took a step back, holding up his hands, as if to shove him away. “Ricky, babes, I promise I’m not seeing anyone else! I live with you, don’t I? Why would I see someone else?”

Blue eyes looked up at him, and there was resignation in them. “Because that’s all you do,” he said. “Live with me. The rest of you isn’t here, Stephen. It hasn’t been for weeks.” He set his bag down on the kitchen counter. “I know you don’t love me.”

“And you don’t love me either,” Stephen said, wishing it hadn’t come out as sharply as it did. He ran his hand over his face, soft, and smelling of soap. “Shit, babes…” He lowered his hand and met Ricky’s eyes. “I’ve not been seeing someone, but there’s someone I know...” He shook his head. “Old flame. I thought I was done, but I’m not.”

Ricky nodded with a brief, drawn smile. “And it’s not going to be me, is it? Ever?”

Stephen shook his head. “I’m sorry, babes.”

Ricky pulled one of the stools out, sitting down. “You should finish your shirt,” he said. “Don’t want to shrink it or something.”

Stephen turned back to the sink. He wasn’t even crying or anything. He’d figured that breaking up would hurt more. It had before. But then he and Ricky weren’t ever that close, and it felt like the more he tried to stay together, the further apart they were getting. 

It was like there was a gap between them.

No. 

It wasn’t like a gap at all.

It was like a person was standing between them, the person Stephen had been trying his best to put from his mind for days, weeks, since Pride.

Ricky didn’t get up or move or anything. He just sat there, as rigid and silent as his reflection, as Stephen scrubbed at the shirt in the sink. 

Finally, he took an unsteady breath.

“So, who is it?”

Stephen unplugged the sink and watched the water swirling away. “Frank.”

“Frank…” Ricky hummed. “What Frank-Frank? Butch bloke? Leather jacket Frank?”

Stephen turned on the taps to rinse the shirt off. “Yes.”

“Jesus.”

Stephen dragged the shirt through the stream of water. “We went out for a few years, at the end of school,” he said quietly. “Never really ended properly.” He sighed, twisting the water out of the shirt. “And then he was there, and…” He let the shirt falling, landing with a wet splat in the sink and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I thought I was over the stupid git.”

“What about him?”

Stephen laughed unsteadily. “He’s a sentimental old queen, I’ll give him that,” he admitted. “He said he’d be waiting, if I was ever…” He looked back at Ricky. “I never did anything with him, not since I’ve been with you.”

“But you want to.”

“You don’t know what he was like,” Stephen said softly. “God, he was so closed up and scared, Ricky. He didn’t want anyone to know. He was always hiding who he was. He was like every arsehole you can imagine who picked on us. And then…”

“He wasn’t?”

Stephen leaned back against the edge of the counter, looking down at his water-wrinkled hands. “He joined a school play so he could speak to me,” he murmured. “He bullied the teacher into giving him the joint lead role, so we’d have to rehearse together.” He looked up at Ricky. “First performance, the silly twat recited Romeo and Juliet to me and kissed me in front of everyone.” He shook his head. “And he didn’t just see me as little Miss Drama Queen. He saw me.” He rubbed his hands together, looking back down at them. “He liked me.”

Ricky slid down off the stool and padded across the floor towards him. “You,” he said, taking Stephen’s shoulders in his hands, “are a silly queen.” He leaned up and kissed Stephen lightly on the lips. “You should go and see if he was serious.”

“But babes…”

Ricky shook his head. “You said what we’ve both been thinking,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re living together, but that’s it.” He slapped Stephen suddenly and sharply on the arse, making him yelp in indignation. “And that’s for moping around like a fucking bitch and not telling me. Have you any idea how exhausting you’ve been to live with the last few weeks?”

Stephen threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly. “If he turns me down flat…”

“I have a spare room, don’t I?” Ricky retorted. He sighed. “Just don’t cock this up, okay? If you’ve got someone who loves you, you better fucking go and get them.”

Stephen stared at him.

Did he, though?

Frank said he’d wait, but maybe he wasn’t serious.

Another sharp smack from Ricky brought him back to focus. “Stop that!”

“Stop pussying around,” Ricky said. “Go and find your bloke.”

Stephen was moving before Ricky could even finish. He was halfway down the stairs from their flat before he realised he hadn’t even remembered to put shoes on. He looked up to see Ricky standing at the top of the staircase.

“You’re pathetic,” he declared, and tossed Stephen’s trainers and coat down to him.

“Piss off!” Stephen said, beaming like an idiot. He pulled on hi shoes and coat and raced out the door.

Of course, by the time he was on the second train that would take him all the way back to Watford, he’d changed his mind and almost gone back home five times. He had his phone, and he’d kept one of Frank’s business cards. He could call ahead, but he didn’t know if that would make it worse or better or anything.

The garage was still open when he got there, and the same girl was on the reception desk.

“All right,” she said, brightening. “Didn’t think we’d see you around here again.”

Stephen looked around anxiously. “Is Frank about?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrows. “What? You want him to come out and play with ya?”

He pinned her with his eyes, not in the mood for being patronised. “No. I want to sue him.”

She went white as a sheet and squawked at the two mechanics.

“Problem?”

“This bloke says he wants to sue Frank!”

The man was bigger and broader than Frank. “Bollocks to that,” he snorted. “Ain’t had any problems from anything we’ve done.” He wiped his hand on a cloth tucked in his belt. “He ain’t here anyway.”

Stephen sighed, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Okay, fine,” he said. “I don’t want to sue anyone, okay? I just want to see Frank and this silly tart was being all…” He waved a hand in frustration, “primary school at me.”

“Oi!”

The mechanic chuckled, looking at her. “You do that sometimes, Tiff,” he said. He looked back at Stephen. “So whaddya want to see the boss for?”

“S’private business,” Stephen replied. “We went to school together. There’s some stuff come up I need to tell him about.” He hesitated, then asked, “Could you give me his address?”

Tiffany reached for the phone. “I’ll need to…”

The mechanic was still watching Stephen. “Nah, Tiff,” he said. “You don’t need to check nothing. Give him the address. If Frank ain’t happy about it, he can come to me, yeah?”

She looked doubtful, but wrote out the address and handed it over to Stephen.

If his hands were shaking, he pretended they weren’t.

“Ta, babes,” he said, spinning on his heel and striding out.

He heard the girl start to protest, but the mechanic shushed her and said “Don’t you worry. I think this is a surprise the boss won’t mind.”

Stephen glanced back, frowning. There was something familiar about the man, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He didn’t really care either, since he had the address and he knew exactly where he was going.

Frank hadn’t moved far from home, just a few streets over, but enough to take him from the bad part of town into the all right part of town. It hadn’t changed much. Stephen could remember feeling brave walking in those parts, especially at night. It didn’t seem so threatening anymore.

Funny what a few years of living in the middle of London would do to a man.

The block that Frank was living in wasn’t a bad one, only half a dozen floor, and even though the buzzer was broken and the door was unlatched, the stairway was clean and there was only a little bit of graffiti on the walls. Stephen’s lips twitched. Some things never changed and the writing on the wall was one of them.

On the third floor up, Stephen hesitated.

Frank’s door was ahead of him. It was a proper flat and everything. It had Frank’s surname on the door in one of those pretentious twat name plates that you could get engraved at the locksmith.

He didn’t know how long he stood there before he managed to find the balls to actually knock.

“Hold on!” Frank yelled through the door.

It was a good minute before the door opened, and Frank stopped dead, staring at him.

“Stephen?”

Stephen stepped right up to the silly bastard, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and kissed him. Frank made a small, startled sound of surprise, but it only last a second before Frank’s arms wrapped around Stephen, and he was kissing him back. 

Stephen was the one who broke the kiss, breathless and tingling down to his toes. “All right?” he said, smiling like an idiot.

“Single. You?”

Stephen’s face lit up. “Snap.”

“Are you gay?”

Stephen blinked at the small voice somewhere down beside Frank’s hip. He looked down and saw a tiny Grayson looking back at him, same eyes, same face, same everything. Kid had to be about five years old, and of course Grayson hadn’t just waited for him for six years. Of course he’d gone off with someone else.

He stepped back, flushing. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of.”

Frank looked down at the kid fondly. “Is that the only question you know, you cheeky little bastard?”

“You was kissing him,” the boy said. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Well,” Stephen said with an unsteady laugh. “It’s a different question.”

Frank ruffled the kid’s hair, then looked at Stephen. “Yeah, Sam,” he said. “He’s my boyfriend.”

The boy - Sam, apparently - looked him up and down. “Okay,” he said, then wandered back into the flat.

Stephen’s mouth was dry. “Just like that, Frankie?”

Frank shrugged with a wry smile. “You’re here. You found me. And you stuck your tongue in my gob. Kind of says you want to give it a second try.” He caught Stephen by the hips and pulled him closer. “That’s why you’re here, innit?”

“What about…” Stephen nodded into the flat, where boy, Frank’s boy, was. God, you’d think that was something a man would remember to mention. I’m still interested in shagging you, and I also have a son.

“Sam?” Frank snorted. “I don’t think he’s your type.”

“Frank,” Stephen sighed with an eye roll. “You know what I mean.”

Frank chuckled, releasing him. “Fine. No shagging in front of the kid,” he said, but he caught Stephen’s hand. “You can stay a bit, yeah?”

The stupid smile was back. “Yeah.”

Frank tugged him into the flat. It was nice, spotless, and nothing like he’d have ever picked out for Frank himself. Six years, he supposed, made the difference between tatty West Ham posters and one big arty film poster for Scarface.

“You want a drink?” Frank asked, releasing his hand. “Coffee? Something stronger?”

Stephen glanced at the kid sitting in front of the TV with the game console. “Stronger,” he said, sticking his hands into his pockets.

Frank disappeared into the kitchen and Stephen looked down at the boy.

He was Frank in miniature, right down to the way he was scowling at the characters on the TV screen. Stephen didn’t know what to say to him. He’d never been around any kids, except Chantelle’s once in a while, and definitely not around a boy who looked like he was enjoying driving a cartoon character around a racetrack.

He cautiously went over to sit on the couch. “Good game?” he asked tentatively.

The boy nodded. “I done a good score,” he declared. He looked up at Stephen, then held out the remote to him. “D’you want a shot?”

Stephen hesitated. “I don’t think I’d be very good.”

The boy grabbed his hand and pulled him down to sit on the floor with him. “It’s easy,” he said. “I’ll show you how.”

Stephen couldn’t help thinking Frank was taking his time on purpose.

By the time Frank eventually came through, Sam was sitting in Stephen’s lap, playing the game for him, to ‘show you how you do it’.

“Having fun?” Frank said, smirking.

“Piss off,” Stephen said, making a face. He managed to negotiate his way out from under Sam and retreated back to the couch, accepting the glass of some kind of spirit from Frank. He sat in the furthest corner, wrapping his hands around the ice-cold glass.

Frank sat at the other end, watching him, like he might bolt or something.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” Stephen said abruptly, nodding to Sam.

Frank frowned. “What about him?”

Stephen took a mouthful of the drink, and winced as it burned down his throat. “A kid, Frank? You didn’t think I’d want to know?”

Frank stared at him, then started laughing. “Fucking hell, Carmichael!” he said, shaking his head. “What kind of jealous prick are you? D’you think I nipped of and shagged some bird as soon as we split up?”

Stephen frowned at him. “You… didn’t?”

“He’s only my sodding nephew, ain’t he? I watch him when his mum works shifts and Ben still has the club.” Frank said, grinning. “What? You thought I went back to pussy after you headed to London?”

Stephen felt heat creeping up his face. He hid behind one hand. “Oh god.”

Frank set down his own glass and slid a little closer, resting one hand on Stephen’s knee, the other plucking his drink away from him. “I don’t think you need any of that, do you, you silly tosser?”

Stephen peeked between his fingers. “How was I meant to know?” he grumbled half-heartedly, but he was smiling. A bit of relief, and yeah, there had been some jealousy there. “You’re not big on the details.”

Frank gently pulled his hands away from his face and leaned in to kiss him. “You,” he said, between kisses, “are to most daft bugger I’ve been stupid enough to fall in love with.”

Stephen fought the grin. “Yeah?”

“Mm. Yeah.” He was pinned back against the couch by the weight of Frank Grayson’s body, and Frank’s face was close to his, and his eyes were gleaming. “And I ain’t letting you go again.”

As Stephen leaned up to kiss him, a voice piped up from the rug, “Gay!”

Both of them looked at each other, then started laughing.


End file.
